Trial by Ordeal, or Mr Guppy's Resolution
by Wickfield
Summary: Mr. Guppy plans to become "a better Guppy" by attending Esther Summerson's wedding at Bleak House. But is his ambition really all that selfless?


_This story was originally written in December 2009, as part of the Dickensblog winter fanfiction challenge. The rules stated 1) Your story should take place in winter, 2) Your story should center around a New-Year's style "resolution" of some sort, and 3) Your story should be about one of your top 5 favorite characters. And since Guppy was essentially my first favorite Dickensian character, he seemed like the proper "hero" for my first Dickensian fanfic. Enjoy his capers, and please R&R!_

**Trial by Ordeal**

_**or, Mr. Guppy's Resolution**_

We return to London, in the January of a year we will not mention, when that city is at its grimiest, at its coldest, at its rawest. All Christmas spirit has long gone, as a flash of lightning that illuminates the sky but leaves it darker; two weeks later, and all is back to normal but more wretched than before. Even the snow cannot remain pure in London; ashes, heaved toward the skies from the depths of the looming smokestacks, mingle and corrupt the brittle flakes even in their flight, and all spirals down to the sodden earth as though cast from Heaven. Yes, all is the same in London – for nothing ever changes – but here we see it at its veritable worst, and will take refuge from this dreariest of weather and dismal air anywhere – yea, even in the heart of the law, for it is only nature that can affect more waste than humans.

What is this familiar establishment we have entered, chugging along like a fiery furnace (though not so warm), an efficient and soulless bureaucracy of waste paper and draggled ribbons, of floods of ink and goose feathers enough to fill an ark, of lawyers and clerks orbiting around one another in circles and circles, going nowhere, like an ancient Copernican diagram of the skies? Could it be Kenge and Carboy's as of old, in the days when _Jarndyce vs. Jarndyce_ was remembered? It is. And at an old scarred desk sits a young gentleman, with his foot jammed up between the slats of his stool, and his head shoved out of window into the smoke, and his sleeves soaking up the noxious ink on the newly written papers sprawled across the table. Why, it is Mr. Guppy!

Mr. Guppy, sad to say, is injured on a number of accounts, though, in his despondency, he is quite the most humorous thing in this picture. He might sue for his grievances, feels he ought to, but he knows too well that the 'ollow heart of the law cannot ease the pain_ he_ feels. (In fact, the 'ollow heart of the law is a large part of his concerns; due to the fact that circumstances beyond his control, i.e. a very large rent, have left him without the law practice he had intended to open and thrust him on the stoop of Kenge and Carboy's.)

The look on Mr. Guppy's face can scarcely be described! It is a look of weariness, brought on by so many dealings in a corrupt world, too long winding about in the sordid labyrinths of the law, and – worst of all – inadequate funding for a quality lunch. Beside the lunch, there also seems to be something akin to shame there in the look, but whether this suspicion of ours is truly founded remains to be seen. Mr. Guppy has been in this melancholy and uncomfortable state for so long this morning of interest, that wizened Mr. Smallweed (buttoned up in a large mud-colored greatcoat and wrapped in a scarf so that only one eye is visible, like a Cyclops) has grown concerned.

In this state of a lengthened face, a chin propped morbidly on a wasted hand, and some locks of fashionably greasy hair shutting his eyes from the corrupt world, a gentleman with cultivated whiskers appears to look upon Mr. Guppy, and it is this gentleman's banging open of the door that jars Mr. Guppy from his reverie.

"I say!" exclaims Tony Jobling (for it is he) upon finding the companion of his youth thus, "_Someone's_ taken a beating, I would think! What's up, Guppy?"

Mr. Guppy seems to be struggling with some inner demon. Mr. Jobling astutely determines this by the unusual contortions of his friend's face.

"Jobling," Mr. Guppy says, at length, in a mild, philosophical voice, "Would you consider me to be a good man?"

"Insomuch as you are a man," says the aged Jobling, "yes."

"Would you say," Mr. Guppy proceeds, as in legal examination, "that, though I have my failings – as who has not? – that even in my mistakes, I have tried to mend my faults?"

"I suppose so, on the whole," says Jobling, diplomatically.

Mr. Guppy sighs, and it is a sigh from _the soul_. "Then Jobling, I am afraid I have cruelly deceived you. I have misrepresented my case, as it were. Though perhaps I present a jolly façade to the world, I possess many private jealousies and ill feelings, of which I admit I have, in recent weeks, grown ashamed."

As Mr. Guppy seems to expect some response, Jobling appeals to the enigma in the greatcoat, who simply shuts up his eye. So Jobling says, encouragingly, "I'm sorry, old man."

As this is rather a non-committed statement, Mr. Guppy in the throes of his anguish thinks that perhaps Jobling is insinuating he can't change. "I _can _change," he declares. "We all have good and bad in us," very profoundly, this, "and I intend to be selfless, you see. And I am going to start out with something difficult - a sort of "trial by ordeal", in the terms of the law, where, should I succeed said ordeal, I shall emerge in innocence."

Here, Mr. Guppy evidently intends to produce something from his coat pocket, though he can't quite find it and if anyone were actually interested they might have felt extreme anticipation. However, no one is, and so all wait patiently until Mr. Guppy discovers the document, which appears to have been cut from a newspaper, folded into his ledger. "No idea why it was there…at any rate, to proceed. Jobling, I should like you to read _this_," and he hands it over. He watches with what might be interest in someone less pensive. "Do you recognize any of the names, Jobling?"

"No-o-o…not so far, Guppy."

Reading continues.

"I believe it's in the second paragraph," Mr. Guppy observes.

"That may be, I haven't gotten there yet…"

Reading continues.

"Does anything ring the proverbial bell, Tony?" Mr. Guppy urges.

"Well I may have to re-read…"

However, it is not fit to tread upon a melancholy soul, for then patience grows thin.

"Good lord, Tony, look here!" Mr. Guppy jabs his pen, in exasperation, at a particular line. "THAT name!"

"Oh, me, that! I just hadn't gotten so far, Guppy, mind yourself. Ah, I recall, shattered image and all that, Est – "

"Do not say it aloud," Mr. Guppy adjures him, hastily. "For to hear her Christian name still strikes an old chord and evokes emotions which I cannot control. But the fallen image, which I would so gladly have raised up – Miss E. Summerson is to become – Mrs. A. Woodcourt!"

There is an uncomfortable silence. "I'm surprised she is marrying in the winter, as spring's the fashion," responds Tony, who knows these things.

"She always was uncommon," Mr. Guppy murmurs at last. "Tony, this is the inspiration for my resolution. I intend to really do what I ought, and that is to put all past associations aside, and to be selfless, and to attend her wedding to A. Woodcourt and give her my blessing, so she may have peace." This is not exactly relatable to the real "trial by ordeal" executed in Britannia's warlike past, as it is doubtful Mr. Guppy will attempt to burn or choke himself, but he thinks it's the equivalent, so perhaps it has the same effect.

"Why, you've received an invitation?" Jobling, asks, astounded.

"I have not, yet. However, as you know, I never procrastinate and am very efficient and so I have already planned how to carry out my resolution," Mr. Guppy answers, modestly.

A voice comes from the corner. "_I_ say it is a very bad business," Mr. Smallweed can be heard to pronounce from somewhere inside his woolen swaddling clothes. "She is_ still_ mixed up with the name of Jarndyce, and came out no better or richer for all the trouble she brewed, and caused the name of_ Smallweed much_ disgrace. You ought not to consort with that kind, Mr. Guppy, if you'd listen to me."

"If by _that_ kind, Chick, you mean someone who has lost their looks," Mr. Guppy responds, with derisive grandeur, "I shall inform you that I have long gotten over that and am glad to say that I admire Miss Summerson's character and wish to do honour to it under the flower of Amity, which don't expire even in winter. Now then, Jobling, would _you_ be willing to aid me?"

"Do you suppose," Jobling inquires, slowly, "that there will be a banquet?"

"Well I should suppose _so_, Jobling," Mr. Guppy returns, dryly, "considering the fact that swells will be present, namely, Mr. A. Woodcourt, and probably also his mother, whom I expect is an angel compared to _my_ mother – that is, if Mr. Woodcourt isn't a child of the universe and splendid in that manner, on which point I assure you I know very little, having never taken particular interest in that gentleman nor having been particularly impressed with any accomplishments he may – or may not – have had."

"Ah." Mr. Jobling has not heard anything since the affirmation of a banquet. "I suppose I can come along, then, if you like."

Mr. Guppy appreciates this as a token of devoted friendship, but Mr. Smallweed morosely interjects to say that he washes his hands of the matter, and wishes him well, but don't expect the best.

Thus encouraged, Mr. Guppy begins to plan what is termed the modus operandi, in the language of the law.

* * *

Inside a London coach-and-four, it is very dim, and musty, and horsey, and shabby, and not exactly suited to encouraging the ambience of noble resolutions. Though a long-time acquaintance with such conveyance, Mr. Guppy grows sorrowfully aware of these downfalls, for the first time, on the appointed day of E. Summerson's marriage. The country field stretches out on each side in vast rolls, as if the carriage were scoring some massive scroll of parchment. And the sky is so clean, with clouds of heavenly vapour, not tainted filth! It is very cold, but very clear, and frost tinges the gorse, and makes everything saintly and beautiful. But cemented in the dim-musty-horsey-shabby carriage, Mr. Guppy sees none of this calmness. All he knows is that each gap or ridge in the road severely rattles the carriage, makes the horses shy, and threatens to rocket them all into kingdom come before he ever even has a chance to repent. Mr. Jobling notices this, also, which may explain the erratic crossing and recrossing of his legs.

"You are certain it said January the 11th?" Tony Jobling asks, doubtfully, of Mr. Guppy.

Mr. Guppy is situated next to him on the seat inside, but seems to have to crane his head around 360 degrees, in his astonishment at this inquiry. "My stars, Tony! You don't suppose that an occasion such as this – a day of happiness for the angel who once brought happiness to me, and at a time at which I can ease her soul – you don't suppose I would forget the date for _that_, Tony? I admit I have my faults, but those stem from selfishness primarily, not unintelligence."

Yet as with many of the eloquent speeches in the world's history, this one is rather wasted, when Tony is diverted by his hat being nearly blown out the window, at an impossible angle, and Mr. Guppy's falling headfirst into his knees, and crying he is strangled by his necktie.

It is some minutes before composure is restored.

It is certainly a bumpier road to Bleak House than either of them had expected, when they hailed the coach at Walcot Square, the location which Mr. Guppy intends to call his abode for as long as the tax collectors admit. How dashing they looked, when coming out the front door of that establishment, at nearly 8 o'clock that morning! Mr. Guppy, decked out in as many colors as the solemn occasion allowed (which was about eight, or nine including his lemon-coloured gloves), and smelling vaguely of a florist's shop; Mr. Jobling, in a black coat with tails, and a white beaver hat, and checkered pants which concerned him as being too sentimental. Both seem overall rather dull in comparison to their shoes, which are amazing, and have been shined to that degree that they may double as a looking-glass.

Now behold quarter-past-10 o'clock. After propelling themselves to their right positions in the carriage, Jobling pursues, "I never did see your ticket. You have it with you, of course?"

"I do not, Tony, because I never got one," says Mr. Guppy, serenely.

"Never got one!"

"No, although _that_ is perfectly reasonable. Because the last time I left a card for Miss Summerson, with the address of my lodgings, I was located in Pentonville. So naturally she sent the invitation there, as she could not send it elsewhere, not knowing my Walcot Square address."

"I am not so certain about that chain of reasoning, Guppy," Jobling grouses, leaning precariously on his elbow, and looking out of window.

Magnanimous Mr. Guppy is sympathetic even then. "I know that your distrustful spells come along when you are ravenous, Tony."

"They come along when I am doubtful, William," is the response from outside the window.

"Tell you what, I will let you eat the lunch that mother made me, concerned the wedding food would be too delicate for my constitution, as I am not in need of it." He hands him a package of whitey-brown paper, which Mr. Jobling unwraps, and where he finds scraps of lobster.

"People doubt that she has her good days," says Mr. Guppy, as Jobling pokes, with no great interest, at the meal, "but this serves as contrariwise evidence – Exhibit A, were this in context of the law. Ah! We are here!"

The careening of the carriage, as the horses are made to stop, avows this. (Jobling nearly chokes on the lobster, and Mr. Guppy is required to strike him several times on the back in order to calm him.)

After Jobling stumbles out of the carriage like a drunk, Mr. Guppy follows mildly, and looks all about him at the grandeur of the place; the stern and solemn bricks that have been standing in rigid composure for two hundred years, the ivy that is almost as old, the erect and noble bearing of the very house that seems to dwarf him and make him insignificant in comparison! He gives a little involuntary gulp. "Well! This is more – hem – refreshing, than first expected, Jobling."

"Guppy, it looks like we may be a bit late," the practical Mr. Jobling says, slowly, after surveying the lands.

"No, it says 11 o'clock," Mr. Guppy consults his paper with great attention.

"That may be so, but at any rate, they've locked the gate against us."

Mr. Guppy's head is seen to whirl about rapidly until he locates the gate, which, admittedly, is hard to miss. "Why, how do you like that? Shut it against guests, with not even a footman – or butler – or some such person, to open it again?"

"Perhaps it told, on the ticket, how to get inside," Jobling insinuates. Mr. Guppy takes no notice of this. He pecks about the fence, picking up his shoes so as not to dirty them, looking like a kitten with bags tied to its feet; he rattles the lock, looks for passersby inside, and has the uneasy feeling that he heard in an adage, that many are called, but few chosen. All seems hopeless –  
But even iron bars and spikes cannot prevent the deeds of a reformed soul!

"I wonder if we could climb over them?" muses Mr. Guppy, stepping back, and looking up over the bars with a critical air.

"Climb over them! What, in these trousers?" Tony Jobling demands, indignantly. "And in these pumps?"

"It was only an idea," Mr. Guppy sniffs. "But how _else_ are we to get inside?" Suddenly, Mr. Guppy's quick legal eye detects a figure, coming closer. "Look there! There's someone! Halloa!" Mr. Guppy rattles the gate, causing the chain and lock to jump and clang like a bad orchestra. "You there! Come here, yes, you!"

It is rather an ugly sallow man who has appeared, on close inspection, though beautified as much as nature can admit by a brilliant suit of colored clothes and breeches and a liberal dousing of hair powder. His look is very sullen, though.

"Ah, hello there, you," Mr. Guppy says condescendingly. "I should like you to oblige us by opening this gate, so we may attend the wedding of Miss Summerson to a Mr. A. Woodcourt."

"You have an invitation, I suppose?" the ugly man inquires. "No one gets in without an invitation."

"Ah, yes," Mr. Guppy explains, "you see, I do not have it _with_ me, on my person, you know, because it is believed that Miss Summerson, abstracted by her daily duties, no doubt, directed it to my initial address at which I no longer abode. Though I suppose you are not aware of this, you being hired help, as I have judged from your shorts," Mr. Guppy adds, as a considerate afterthought.

The ugly man in breeches gives him rather a suspicious eye. "I had better go consult with them," he mutters as he walks off.

Mr. Guppy is exceedingly pleased by this turn of events and his kindness to someone in a lower circle than himself, and utters rapidly, "She is on her way, Jobling! Straighten your hat and tie as I do, for it's no good to bring a gift in a paper bag, as you might say!"

However, as the approaching shadow grows larger with the early sun, it changes forms and appears not particularly feminine, and Mr. Guppy looks up to behold no lovely lady in white, as expected, but the tall, imposing figure of an elderly _gentleman_ – none other than Mr. John Jarndyce, of Bleak House!

Mr. Guppy is very much abashed, and no straightened hat or tie can hide this.

Mr. Jarndyce, with his neat white hair, and his dark eyebrows, and his plain but impeccable clothing, and his benevolent conduct, seems not to recognize the guests at first. "Well, what is your name, sir – ah, yes!" He nods, in a humorous yet irritated manner, "You are that law boy, from Kenge and Carboy's – Guppy, the clerk."

"I am no longer a clerk, sir," Mr. Guppy replies, in a choking sort of voice.

"I apologize," Mr. Jarndyce says, benignly, and with great composure. "I believe I recall that you mentioned opening a law firm for yourself, did you not?"

"I am still employed at Kenge and Carboy's," Mr. Guppy states, "without going into particulars as to why I have decided not to advance myself."

Mr. Jarndyce nods. "I am curious as to why you have arrived here, on this particular day."

"I had intended to…attend," Mr. Guppy begins, not liking the sound of it. "To attend Miss Summerson's wedding, you know, we being mutual acquaintances."

"Did Miss Summerson invite you?"

Mr. Guppy looks to Jobling, who looks back moodily, and then repeats his explanation of why he has no invitation.

"I find it truly peculiar," Mr. Jarndyce observes, and he seems to be ten feet tall, though still so polite, "that I do not recall Miss Summerson mentioning anything about you."

"I suspect her silence on the issue arises out of the well of her feelings," Mr. Guppy interjects. "This logical procession of information leads me to explain my motive of coming here today, for which opportunity I am very appreciative. You see, I do not want her to think that she - Miss S. - should have any resignations, about her declining my previous legal offers, and then going into contract with another gentleman - getting married. I want to ease her soul on that account. She may not know this, but I have moved on, and she is not beholden to me."

Mr. Jarndyce seems to have some profound thoughts on this issue, as he regards Mr. Guppy, silently, for a few moments. Perhaps they relate to some part of his own history; we cannot avow that. Yet we can observe that his kind eye kindles with a spark of indignation, likely fanned by an east wind, as it falls on Mr. Guppy.

"That is a very noble thing, young man," he announces, finally, with the sparking eyes downcast.

"Thank you for acknowledging that, sir. Even though it is a difficult thing, I intend to become a better Guppy." He doesn't exactly like the sound of that, either, but tries to carry on with assurance.

Mr. Jarndyce nods, thoughtfully, and steadily looks Mr. Guppy in the face. "It is a thing most people do _not_ do, sir, what you are doing today. Perhaps they should! If only we all attended where we were not wanted, in order to ease those around us and bring good! (Do you know, I think it's almost akin to the missionaries who travel to the South Seas, where there are cannibals, in order to spread good news, I think.) Because there can never, possibly, be anything selfish about bestowing a visit – and not only that! A benediction! – on another. It is all disinterested. Done for the sake of nobility."

"I believe you have hit the nail on the head, so to speak, sir," Mr. Guppy agrees, modestly. "For, I am not ashamed to admit, this visit is very much out of my nature."

"Oh, not so much out of your nature as you may think, sir," Mr. Jarndyce responds, blandly.

Mr. Guppy is very much obliged for this compliment.

Mr. Jarndyce continues. "Finally, above all – and this is the true mark of a good deed – when doing a good deed such as this, we never give the implication that we are so righteous, that _we_ have the right to forgive and give our blessing on another, and have no faults of our own. That is important."

"I always knew you were a man of good sense, sir," Mr. Guppy smiles. Mr. Jarndyce returns the smile, and nods.

"Well then! I am glad! I am glad we understand one another! I am glad you have a witness - " here he nods to Mr. Jobling "who can vouch for the goodness and pure intentions of your heart this day! Thus, I shall relay your message, myself, directly. I am sure Miss Summerson will be glad to hear it! No inconvenience at all, sir," he adds, at Mr. Guppy's quick protests. "I know the importance of your visit is the message – because you are a monkish young pair, you don't care for such extraneous things as actually ATTENDING the wedding, or the banquet, nor do you intend to accidentally distress Miss Summerson (for indeed, she may be out of sorts on the occasion she has looked forward to for so long!) with your appearance. Good day, sirs! Rest in the knowledge of a good deed." And with that, Mr. Jarndyce disappears, to dispatch his service.

Mr. Guppy looks a bit like his namesake, as he stands at the gate, which is still firmly locked, and gapes. "Why, I will admit to you, Jobling," he says in a blank voice, "that took an unexpected turn."

"Aye, that it did," Jobling says with no small irritation.

Mr. Guppy runs his hand through his hair, making it stick up at right angles in the distraction of his despair. "Well, I suppose I shall NEVER learn how to be selfless," he groans, "if I'm never permitted firsthand practice!"

Jobling has some sympathy for Mr. Guppy, as they walk slowly away from Bleak House, where they can hear a lady's laughter and sweet strains of music; but he is sorrier for himself, as only lobster will content him that day, and that is a true emptiness.

The next day at the office– Mr. Guppy always goes to the office, even if it requires exhibiting his sullen mood – he still receives no sympathy. For even young Mr. Smallweed, that sage of wisdom, only regards him with his one visible, venerable eye, and nods, as if to say – "I warned you; you are of a different kind than they, Mr. Guppy!"


End file.
